Book V. Full

The graves stood tenantless, and the sheeted dead

Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets;

As stars with trains of fire, and dews of blood,

Disasters in the sun; and the moist star

Upon whose influence Neptune's empire stands

Was sick almost to doomsday with eclipse.

—William Shakespeare, Hamlet

I'll dance the Moon again as long as she's the piper

I was her acolyte, but have become her partner

When I've done dancing with her,

Then I'll tend her flame

Just like her, some things change

But others stay the same.

—Talis Kimberley, "Raspberry Leaf and Lemon Balm Tea"

A woman emerged from the opening at the top of the stairs and started languidly down, one hand resting on the rail to steady her. Her skin was very pale, with a faint grayish cast, like the Page of Ceaseless Storms, or Niamh; Niamh was more blue than gray, but they could still have been related, however distantly. Her hair was long and white and unsnarled, despite the fact that it hung loose down her back, where it should have been heir to countless tangles. She wore a gown of flower petals and mist, and that was one more thing that should have been impossible but somehow wasn't, because where this woman walked, nothing was impossible.

Avery looked at her and was lost, his eyes going wide and his hand slipping out of Zib's to dangle by his side, even as his mouth fell slightly open. He looked at the Queen of Swords like she was a bowl of ice cream on a summer afternoon or a perfect grade on a math test he'd forgotten to study for, like she was the most impossibly flawless thing to ever have existed in an imperfect world.

"Welcome," she said, in a voice as sweet as the rest of her, and just as perfect. "Welcome, children, to the Palace of Storms in the Land of Air. I have been waiting for you for a very long time indeed."

"Hello, Mother," said Jack. "I have one of your little pets here."

The Crow Girl whimpered again, burying her face in the side of his neck this time, as the Queen of Swords finished descending the stairs and walked, slowly and grandly, toward them.

"I see that," she said. "One of the Crows, isn't it? Crow Girls are so easy to make that I scarcely keep track of them all, and they're flighty enough things that it's best to let them fly away and seek other aviaries when the desire strikes them. Nothing good ever came of trying to contain a Crow who didn't want to be kept. Did I make this one so small?"

"She's lost quite a few birds," said Jack. He gave his mother a challenging look. "The kind thing to do would be to open a cage of blank birds and let her keep the core of herself as it stands. But you won't do that, will you?"

"It's the nature of Crows to be changeable, unless they can be careful," she said, waving a hand, like she was brushing something away. "She'll rebuild her murder the way they all do, with birds who need a flock to belong to, one by one, until she reaches the size that keeps her comfortable."

"Kindness has never been your strong suit, has it?" asked Jack.

"I don't know, my beautiful boy. Did you think it was kind when I pulled your heart out of your chest and built a rookery in its place, a spot for the jackdaws to roost and rest and keep you company? You're never alone, thanks to me. You're not my finest monster, but you're my most precious, and you'll never fly away from me."

"Only because you left me with a name."

"A flock with a name will never roam too far from home," she said, crisply, and turned her attention on the other three. "A drowned girl, hmmm. Someone else's monster, and not mine, unless I read you wrong.…"

—From Into the Windwracked Wilds, by A. Deborah Baker